Jami Attenberg - Saint Mazie

Phillip Tekverk

People have different definitions of greatness. Was she wry and funny? Yes. Charismatic certainly. Beauty — and I won’t apologize for this — is part of my definition of greatness, and she wasn’t beautiful anymore, although I suspected she had been. Her hair was straw yellow, bleached for too many years. And she wore this green celluloid shade, which looked ridiculous. I suppose it was to block the sun, but it wasn’t flattering in the slightest. Her face seemed sort of hazy around the edges, as if her chin were on the verge of melting into her neck. She was well put together otherwise though. Although she was hunched over, she had a wonderful bosom, which she showed off perfectly, and I come from a family of women obsessed with their personal lighting. And she was direct and sharp and I liked her, and I had been told to admire her and so I did.

It all happened very quickly. Fannie gave her the beer, and they greeted each other like they were sisters; it was all very familiar and loving. Then Fannie said, “You must meet this young upstart in the publishing world.” And I said my name and introduced myself and then I lit a cigarette and gave it to Mazie. She eyed me, and I got the sense she trusted absolutely no one on first impression. Yet I could tell it was very clearly a positive appraisal. Perhaps she was flirting with me, I don’t know. She was a little long in the tooth for me, but if it hadn’t stopped any of the older gentlemen who took me out for drives in the country, why should it stop her? Then it seemed like she caught herself. I wish I could remember more of our conversation. I was quite captivated by her looks even as I rejected them. She was not beautiful but she was a presence. I suppose that could have made her great in someone’s book.

Anyway I razzle-dazzled her with the idea that she should write the story of her life and she seemed uninterested at first, but I assured her that she — and I stole this phrase instantly from Fannie, of course — she, as the Queen of the Bowery, should tell her story to her subjects. I don’t know if that appealed to her ego but it had a hook to it. She still was uncertain, but I felt that I had gotten under her skin, so I resolved to pursue it.

George Flicker

Rosie and Al lived for a long time in Knickerbocker Village together, though they never married, which would have been scandalous if we’d had anyone left in our lives to care. Their apartment became a haven for all the intellectuals and bohemians that eventually moved into the building. The police came more than a few times to ask him questions about his radical politics, which, as it turns out, he still was very much active in. I guess it’s possible he resumed his activities once he settled down with Rosie. Perhaps the building triggered his renewed interest, being around all those thinkers. The Rosenbergs were have said to have dined at their table more than a few times. The police never arrested him or roughed him up though. Those days were done, thank god. He was a frail man now, and Rosie looked after him. Tiger Lady’s what we used to call her.

Mazie had long since moved out. I didn’t see her very often. Al told me she had an aunt in Boston she’d grown close with and she visited her once a year. I thought that was good for her. Her sisters had never been so reliable. She was a churchgoer too. Al told me she went to workingman’s mass every Sunday, late at night, or maybe it was early in the morning. While Al didn’t necessarily approve of God, he did approve of the workingman so I remember him telling me that as a point of admiration.

I waved at her sometimes at the theater. But she always seemed busy, and whatever had existed between us once, it was like none of it had happened. I missed her but I guess I didn’t have the right to say that or much of anything to her. It was true that there was a crossover in time between her and Alice. I didn’t tell you that right away because my wife is the one I think of from that time in my life. Mazie wasn’t the girl I was going to marry. Alice was. And some secrets are better left hidden. We don’t need to know everything about everyone. I have to admit I’m a little tired now of you digging up the secrets. Just today, just now. I’m tired.

Vera Sung, former resident, Knickerbocker Village

I did not speak English yet, or only a little bit I did, but not very well. I felt very lonely even though the apartment was crowded. We were happy to be there though, because the Knickerbocker was a special place, well kept and beautiful. And we had many family members in the building, too, so there was always someone to feed us or look after us, which was helpful for my mother after the divorce. But in my apartment there was my mother and four brothers. So, the only girl, even harder.

I was silent for a long time, but I was also a daydreamer and an adventurer. I could climb like a little monkey and I could fit through windows that no one else could. There were many passageways to explore there. There is a basement that connects all the buildings, for example, and side entrances and exits where you can escape undetected. All of this was very helpful later when I began to skip school, and then after that when I started hanging out in the East Village with those bad boys in the leather motorcycle jackets and the tight jeans. Those are good stories. I can tell you those too.

But when I was little I had nowhere in particular I wanted to go but the garden. I liked to listen to all the birds chirping. I would pretend I was Snow White. In my daydreams my brothers were my dwarves. I would hold my hands out and wait for the birds to come land on my shoulders and arms and fingers but they never did. In the early mornings, before anyone in the apartment woke up, that’s what I would do, I would sneak out to the garden and daydream, sing along with the birds.

This is where I found this couple, the older Jewish couple. I had never met them before, but later I learned their names were Rosie and Al. They were sitting next to each other on one of the benches, hidden behind a row of high hedges. It was September, but they were wearing their winter coats because they were old, and old people get cold sometimes. She was snoring loudly, so loudly that I could hear her over the birds. That’s why I had gone over there, to investigate the noise. He was not snoring at all. He had a long gray beard and fisherman’s cap, and he was blue in the face. I had never seen a dead person before but I knew right away that’s what he was.

Suddenly I realized the birds had stopped chirping. I shook the woman awake. I said, “Miss, wake up, wake up.” It was the most I had spoken all year. I was four or five. She finally woke up and I pointed to him and said, “He is sick.” Which was a lie but I could not bring myself to say the real truth. She shrieked, and I ran off, back to my apartment. I heard an ambulance soon, and I watched it all through my window. I told my mother nothing.

Two days later I snuck out of my window again, back down to the garden, and I found the woman, Rosie, on the bench. And now it was her time to be dead, and this was when I began to cry. Once stunned me. Twice wounded me. Now there was no way to hide this information from my mother. Someone had to call the police, and it was she who made that call. She hugged me, and she made all my brothers hug me, one by one. After that morning I talked all the time.

Mazie’s Diary, December 1, 1934

I’m late, I’m pregnant, all of it, all that could happen, it’s true. It’s George’s and no one else’s.

Mazie’s Diary, December 3, 1934

Could I keep it and never tell him is what I’m thinking today. I could move away and he might never know. I never wanted one though. Why would I now?